


Dark Angel, In Ways

by orphan_account



Category: Night World - L. J. Smith, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Castiel Has a Crush on Dean, College Student Castiel, Copyright, M/M, Secret Crush, Student Castiel, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:33:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2052036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak didn't mean to die that day.</p><p>He just wanted to go home.</p><p>That was when he heard the crying.</p><p>//Okay, I am never gonna finish this story. Just FYI, I suppose.//</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this may seem to have an insane amount of copyright and plagiarism, which it kind of does in the first two or three chapters, but trust me, a plot twist is on it's way. This is based on Dark Angel by L.J. Smith. Well, the first part it, anyway. 
> 
> You'll get it later, trust me...  
> (...I'm the Doctor...)
> 
> Sorry, I wasn't going to pass up that golden opportunity.

Castiel Novak didn't mean to die that day. 

He was mad, though. Mad because he had missed his ride home from school, and because he was cold, and because it was two weeks before Christmas and he was very, very lonely.

He walked by the side of the empty road, which was about as winding and hilly as every other country road in southwestern Pennsylvania, and viscously kicked offending clumps of snow out of his way.

It was a rotten day. The sky was dull and the snow looked tired. And Sam Winchester, who should have been waiting after Castiel cleaned up his studio art project, had already driven away-with his new boyfriend.

Sure, it must have been an honest mistake. And he wasn't jealous of Sam, he wasn't, even though one week ago they had both been sixteen and never been kissed.

Castiel just wanted to get home.

That was when he heard the crying.

He stopped, looked around. It sounded like a baby-or maybe a cat. It seemed to be coming from the woods.

His first thought was, Anna Milton. But that was ridiculous. The little girl who'd disappeared somewhere at the end of this road had been gone for over a year now.

The crying came again. It was thin and far away-as if it were coming from the depths of the woods. This time it sounded more human.

"Hello? Hey, is somebody in there?" 

There was no answer. Castiel stared into the dense stand of oak and hickory, trying to see between the gnarled bare trees. It looked uninviting. Scary.

The he looked up and down the road. Nobody. Hardly surprising- not many cars passed by here. 

I am not going in there alone, Castiel thought. He was exactly the opposite of the "Oh, it's such a nice day; let's go tromping through the woods" type. Not to mention exactly the opposite of the brave type.

But who else was there? And what else was there to do?

Somebody was in trouble.

He slipped his left arm through his backpack strap, settling it on the center of his back and leaving his hands free. Then he cautiously began to climb the snow-covered ridge that fell away on the other side of the woods. 

"Hello?" He felt stupid shouting and not getting any answer. "Hi! Hello!"

Only the crying sound, faint but conscious, somewhere in front of him.

Castiel began to flounder down the ridge. He didn't weigh much, but the crust on the snow was very thin and every step took him ankle deep.

Great, and I'm wearing sneakers. He could feel cold seeping into his feet.

The snow wasn't so deep once he got into the woods. It was white and unbroken beneath the trees-and it gave him an eerie sense of isolation. As if he were in the wilderness. 

And it was so quiet. The farther Castiel went in, the deeper the silence became. He had to stop and not breathe to hear the crying.

Bear left, he told himself. Keep walking. There's nothing to be scared of!

But he couldn't make himself yell again.

There is something weird about this place....

Deeper and deeper into the woods. The road was far behind him now. He crossed fox tracks and bird scratches in the snow-no sign of anything human.

But the crying was right ahead now, and louder. He could hear it clearly.

Okay, up this big ridge. Yes, you can do it. Up, up. Never mind if your feet are cold.

As he struggled over the uneven ground, he tried to think comforting thoughts.

Maybe I can write an article about it for the Crossroads News and everyone will admire me.... Wait. Is it cool or uncool to save somebody? Is saving people too nice to be cool?

It was an important question, since Castiel currently had only two ambitions: 1) Dean Winchester, and, 2) to be invited to the parties the popular kids were invited to. And both of these depended, in a large part, on being cool.

If he were only popular, if he only felt good about himself, then everything else would follow. It would be so much easier to be a really wonderful person and do something for the world and make something important of his life if he just felt loved and accepted. If he weren't shy and short and immature-looking...

He reached the top of the ridge and grabbed at a branch to keep his balance. Then, still hanging on, he let out his breath and looked around.

Nothing to see. Quiet woods leading down to a creek just below.

And nothing to hear, either. The crying had stopped.

Oh, don't do this to me!

Frustration warmed Castiel up and chased away his fear. He yelled, "Hey-hey, are you still out there? Can you hear me? I'm coming to help you!"

Silence. And then, very faintly, a sound.

Directly ahead.

Oh, my God, Castiel thought. The creek.

The kid was in the creek, hanging on to something, getting weaker an weaker....

Castiel was scrambling down the other side of the ridge, slithering, the wet snow adhering to her like lumpy frosting.

Heart pounding, out of breath, he stood on the bank of the creek. Below him, at the edge, he could see fragile ice ledges reaching out like petals over the rushing water. Spray had frozen like diamond drops in water.

But nothing living. Castiel frantically scanned the surface of the dark water.

"Are you there?" he shouted. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing. Rocks in the water. Branches caught against the rocks. The sound of the rushing creek.

"Where are you?"

He couldn't hear the crying anymore. The water was too loud.

Maybe the kid had gone under.

Castiel leaned out, looking for a wet head, a shape beneath the surface. He leaned out further.

And then-a mistake. Some subtle change of balance. Ice under her feet. His arms were windmilling, but he couldn't get his balance back....

He was flying. Nothing solid anywhere. Too surprised to be frightened.

He hit the water with an icy shock.


	2. Male Equivalent to Sundresses?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patience, grasshoppers. The meaningless plagiarism shall come to an end shortly... I hope.

Everything was freezing confusion. His head was under water and he was being tumbled over and over. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, and he was completely disoriented.

Then his head popped up. He automatically sucked in a huge gasp of air.

His arms were flailing but they seemed tangled in his backpack. The creek was wide here and the current was very strong. He was being swept downstream, and every other second his mouth seemed to be full of water. Reality was just one desperate, choking attempt to get enough air for the next breath.

And everything was so cold. A cold that was pain, not just temperature. 

I'm going to die.

His mind realized this with a sort of numb certainty, but his body was stubborn. It fought almost as if it had a separate brain of it's own. It struggled out of his backpack, so that the natural buoyancy of his ski jacket helped keep his head above water. It made his legs kick, trying to stand firm on the bottom. 

No good. The creek was only six feet deep in the center, but that was still an inch higher than Castiel's head. He was too small, too weak, and he couldn't get any kind of control over where he was going. And the cold was sapping his strength frighteningly fast. With every second his chances of surviving dropped.

It was as if the creek were a monster that hated him and would never let him go. It slammed him into rocks and swept him on before his hands could get hold of the cold, smooth surfaces. And in a few minutes he was going to be too weak to keep his face above water.

I have to grab something.

His body was telling him that. It was his only chance.

There. Up ahead, on the left bank, a projecting spit with tree roots. He had to get it. Kick. Kick.

He hit and almost spun past it. But somehow, he was holding on. The roots were thicker than his arms, a huge tangle like slick, icy snakes.

Castiel thrust an arm through a natural loop of the roots, anchoring himself. Oh-yes; he could breathe now. But his body was still in the creek, being sucked away by the water.

He had to get out- but that was impossible. He just barely had the strength to hold on; his weakened, numb muscles could never pull him up the bank.

At that moment, he was filled with hatred- not for the creek, but for himself. Because he was little and weak and childish and it was going to kill him. He was going to die, and it was all happening right now, and it was real.

He could never really remember what happened next. His mind let go and there was nothing but anger and the burning need to get higher. His legs kicked and scrambled and some dim part of him knew that each impact against the rocks and roots should have hurt. But all that mattered was the desperation that was somehow, inch by inch, getting his numb, water-logged body out of the creek.

And the he was out. He was lying on roots and snow. His vision was dim; he was gasping, openmouthed, for breath, but he was alive.

Castiel lay there for a long time, not really aware of the cold, his entire body echoing with relief.

I made it! I'll be okay now.

It was only when he tried to get up that he realized how wrong he was. 

When he tried to stand, his legs felt almost folded under him. His muscles felt like jelly.

And... it was cold. He was already exhausted and nearly frozen, and his soaking clothes felt as heavy as medieval armor. His gloves were gone, lost in the creek. His cap was gone. With every breath, he seemed to get colder, and suddenly he was racked with waves of violent shivers.

Find the road... I have to get to the road. But which way was it.

He's landed somewhere downstream-but where? How far away was the road now?

Doesn't matter... just walk away from the creek, Castiel thought slowly. It was difficult to think at all.

He felt stiff and clumsy and the shivering made it hard to climb over fallen trees and branches. His red, swollen fingers couldn't close to get handholds.

I'm so cold-why can't I stop shivering?

Dimly, he knew that he was in serious trouble. If he didn't get to the road-soon- he wasn't going to survive. But it was more and more difficult to call up a sense of alarm. A strange sort of apathy was coming over him. The gnarled forest seemed like something from a fairy tale.

Stumbling... staggering. He had no idea where he was going. Just straight ahead. That was all he could see anyway, the next dark rock protruding from the snow, the next fallen branch to get over or around. 

And then suddenly he was on his face. He'd fallen. It seemed to take immense effort to get up again.

It's these clothes... they're too heavy. I should take them off.

Again, dimly, he knew that this was wrong. His brain was being affected; he was dazed with hypothermia. But the part of him that knew this was far away, separate from him. He fought to make his numbed fingers unzip his ski jacket.

Okay... it's off. I can walk better now....

He couldn't walk better. He kept falling. He had been doing this forever, stumbling, falling, getting up. And every time it was a little harder.

His cords felt like slabs of ice on his legs. He looked at them with distant annoyance and saw that they were covered with adhering snow.

Okay-maybe take those off, too?

He couldn't remember how to work a zipper. He couldn't think at all anymore. The violent waves of shivering were interspersed with pauses now, and the pauses were getting longer.

I guess... that's good. I must not be so cold....

I just need a little rest.

While the faraway part of his brain screamed uselessly in protest, Castiel sat down in the snow.

He was in a small clearing. It seemed deserted-not even the footprints of a ground mouse marked the smooth white carpet around him. Above, overhanging branches formed a snowy canopy.

It was a very peaceful place to die.

Castiel's shivering had stopped.

Which meant it was all over now. His body couldn't warm itself by shivering any longer, and was giving up the fight. Instead, it was trying to move into hibernation. Shutting itself down, reducing breathing and heart rate, conserving the little warmth that was left. Trying to survive until help could come.

Except that no help was coming.

No one knew where he was. It would be hours before his dad got home or his mother was... awake. And even then they wouldn't be alarmed that Castiel wasn't there. They'd assume he was with Sam. By the time anyone thought of looking for him it would e far too late.

The faraway part of Castiel's mind knew all this, but it didn't matter. He had reached his physical limits-he couldn't save himself now even if he could have thought of a plan.

His hands weren't red anymore. They were blue-white. His muscles were becoming rigid.

At least he no longer felt cold. There was only a vast sense of relief at not having to move. He was so tired....

His body had begun the process of dying.

White mist filled his mind. He had no sense of time passing. His metabolism was slowing to a stop. He was becoming a creature of ice, no different from any stump or rock in the frozen wilderness.

I'm on trouble... somebody... somebody please...

Mom...

His last thought was, it's just like going to sleep.

And then, all at once, there was no rigidity, no discomfort. He felt light and calm and free-and he was floating up near the canopy of snowy boughs.

How wonderful to be warm again! Really warm, as if he were filled with sunshine. Castiel laughed in pleasure.|

 

Cramped fingers paused over the keys, contemplating his next move. As out of character as the pervious statement had been, he'd decided to let it stay. His fingers began to move again, typing the next part of his 'little story'.

 

But where am I? Didn't something just happen-something bad?

On the ground below him there was a huddled figure. Castiel looked at it curiously.

A small boy. Face hidden by his messy dark hair, the strands clinging to his face. The boy's face was average. Insignificant bone structure. But the skin was a terrible flat white—dead-looking.

The eyes were shut, the lashes frosty. Underneath, Castiel knew somehow, the eyes were deep blue.

I get it. I remember. That's me.

The realization didn't bother him. Castiel felt no connection to the huddled thing in the snow. He didn't belong to it anymore.

With a mental shrug, he turned away-

-and he was in a tunnel.

A huge dark place, with the feeling of being vastly complicated somehow. As if space here were folded or twisted-and maybe time, too.

He was rushing through it, flying. Points of light were whizzing by-who could tell how far away in the darkness?

Oh, God, Castiel thought. It's the tunnel. This is happening. Right now. To me.

I'm really dead.

And going at warp speed.

Weirder than being dead was being dead with a sense of humor.

Contradictions... this felt so real, more real than anything that had ever happened while he was alive. But at the same time, he had a strange sense of unreality. The edges of his self were blurred, as if somehow he were a part of the tunnel and the lights and the motion. He didn't have a distinct body anymore.

Could this all be happening in my head?

With that, for the first time, he felt frightened. Things in his head... could be scary. What is he ran into his nightmares, the very things that his subconscious knew terrified him the most.

That was when he realized he had no control over where he was going.

And the tunnel had changed. There was a bright light up ahead.

It wasn't blue-white, as he would've expected from movies. It was pale gold, blurred as if he were seeing it through frosty glass, but still unbelievably brilliant.

Isn't it supposed to feel like love or something?

What it felt like-what it made him feel-was awe. The light was so big, so powerful... and so Just Plain Bright. It was like looking at the beginning of the universe. And he was rushing toward it so fast-it was filling his vision. 

He was in it.

The light encompassed him, surrounding him. Seemed to shine through him. He was flying upward through radiance like a swimmer surfacing.

The feeling of motion faded. The light was getting less bright-maybe his eyes were adapting to it.

Shapes solidified around him.

He was in a meadow. The grass was amazing-not just green, but a sort of impossible ultragreen. As if lit up from the inside. The sky was the same kind of impossible blue.|

 

The hands had once again stopped typing. The owner of those hands was studying the next sentence that he was supposed to transform. 

"She was wearing a thin summer dress that billowed around her." A sentence that he had no clue how to create a male equivalent of that sentence. Another moment of scrutiny passed before he sighed and pressed the enter key, ignoring the existence of the missing sentence. 

His fingers began to swiftly create words once again.

 

The false color made it seem like a dream. Not to mention the white columns rising at intervals from the grass, supporting nothing.

So this is what happens when you die. And now... now, so somebody should come meet me. Grandpa Zachariah? I'd like to see him walking again.

But no one came. The landscape was beautiful, peaceful, unearthly-and utterly deserted.

Castiel felt anxiety twisting again inside him. Wait, what if this place wasn't-the good place? After all, he hasn't been particularly good in his life. What if this were actually hell?

Or... limbo?

Like the place all those spirits who talked to mediums must be from. Creatures from heaven wouldn't say such silly things.

What if he were left here, alone, forever?

As soon as he finished the thought, he wished he hadn't. This seemed to be the kind of place where thoughts-or fears-could influence reality.

Wasn't that something rancid he smelled?

And-weren't those voices? Fragments of sentences that seemed to come from the air around him? The kind of nonsense said by people in dreams.

"So white you can't see..."

"A time and a half..."

"If only I could, girl..."

Castiel turned around and around, trying to catch more. Trying to figure out whether or not he was really hearing the words. He had the sudden gut-trembling feeling that the beauty around him could easily come apart at the seams.

Oh, God, let me think good thoughts. Please. I wish I hadn't watched so many horror movies. I don't want to see anything terrible-like the ground splitting and hands reaching for me.

And I don't want anyone to meet me-looking like something rotting with bones exposed-after all.

He was in trouble. Even thinking about not thinking brought up pictures. And now fear was galloping inside him, and in his mind the bright meadow was turning into a nightmare of darkness and stink and pressure and gibbering mindless things. He was terrified that any moment he might see a change-

And then he did see one. Something unmistakable. A few feet away from him, above the grass, was a sort of mist of light. It hadn't been there a moment ago. But not it seemed to get brighter as he watched, and to stretch from very far away.

And there was a shape in it, coming toward him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for deep contemplations about death and heaven, sexy angels, and sneak peeks at the mystery writer in the next chapter.
> 
> Adieu, demon-spawn!


End file.
